“Maybe.”
He stopped at the doorway and turned to me. “You should call her.” He slipped out of the room and into the kitchen.
I made the call outside in the backyard with the sounds of the country: the breeze blowing through an empty field, a smattering of crickets, a couple of dogs barking in the far distance.
“Hello, Ryker.”
“Holly.” She sounded so clear to me on the phone, so close as if she were standing beside me, admiring the same view, breathing in the same clean air. “How are you?”
“I’m well, thank you. How are you?”
“I miss you,” I said, my voice cracking.
“I miss you, too.”
The nearness of her voice was mocking my pain. She was far, far away from me, in distance and in spirit.
“I’m heading back to the hospital now,” she said. “Can I call you later?”
“Yes, of course.”
“Give your brothers a big hug for me, okay?”
“Holly.”
“Yes.”
“I… I think I love you.”
The silence was so long I began to wonder if I’d actually said anything at all or if I’d thought about my proclamation so hard that I had mistakenly believed it had come out of my mouth.
“I’ll call you back in a few hours. Okay, Ryker?”
“Okay, Holly.”
“Bye, Ryker.”
“Bye.”23HollyAs soon as I was on the plane heading back to San Diego, I began to feel sick. My heart felt like it had sunk into my stomach, and my insides were all confused and in revolt. I had a number of conflicting emotions stirring in me, from anger toward Wendy and, in part, toward the Chandlers for not seeing how the invasion of my privacy could upset me, to sadness at leaving the mountains and leaving my lovers, to extreme sadness and worry over my mother. My father told me the situation was bad, that I should get home quickly, and he’d explain in more detail once I was back.
All of those emotions, the sadness, and anxiety mixed with anger and fear, were wreaking havoc on my insides. I was sure that I was going to get sick on the plane. Fortunately, I made it to San Diego without incident.
Once I had landed in San Diego, the dizziness and nausea I was fighting subsided somewhat. But the next day, they came back with a vengeance. I spent the morning feeling as if I were about to vomit.
If I’d missed my period, I would think I’m experiencing morning sickness.
As soon as the thought flashed in my mind, it was immediately followed by a wave of panic.
Wait. When did I last have my period?
Life in the mountains had taken on such a different speed than what I’d been used to. Without a nine to five job and weekends off, the notion of days and weeks going by had been blurred. I hadn’t noticed it then, but now, lying on my bed with morning sickness symptoms, I counted back the days till my last period and realized that I was late—very late.
Driving to the pharmacy to get a home pregnancy test only aggravated my anxiety and worsened the nausea. My forehead felt hot, and my hands were clammy. I checked myself in the mirror: I was white as a ghost. And even though I’d been putting up a heroic effort to keep the tears back, my eyes were red and puffy from crying.
I entered the pharmacy slowly, my steps unsure and labored. I found a home pregnancy test and took it to the check-out counter. There was nobody in line, but I had to stand to the side, take in deep breaths and collect myself a minute before stepping up to the register.
I hung my head, closed my eyes, and concentrated on not vomiting, concentrated on not keeling over.
“Miss, are you all right?” the pharmacist asked.
I wanted to shout, No, I’m not all right, that’s why I’m at a pharmacy! But I had more manners than to be rude to someone’s simply expressing concern for me—plus, I doubted I had the physical strength to speak coherently, much less to shout. So, instead, I nodded—with difficulty—and mumbled, “I just need a minute.”
I took in a deep breath, exhaled, and opened my eyes. Above the crosswords and above the fashion magazines, there in the magazine rack, among all the celebrity gossip rags with big, bold headlines and brightly colored photos that competed for the shoppers’ impulses, was the rag Wendy wrote for. And on the cover, the headline, standing out from all the others, read: “Appalachian Orgy, Ten Brothers Share More Than A Family Bond.”
I clutched the counter for fear I’d fall. The room started to spin. The headline whipped around my head faster and faster, cut intermittently by the worried face of the pharmacist.
“Miss, can I help you? Do you need to sit down?”
I slapped the pregnancy test onto the counter, shook my head, and managed to mumble, “Credit card, please.”